Lights in a Western Sky

by Roger Curtis

  A year passed, then two more. The hedge around the physic garden had become tall and fine under Kingsland’s deft shears. The once bare paths were now all but obliterated by bursting cushions of luxuriance. He saw there many of the plants he used – Achillea, Cnicus, Helleborus, Symphytum, Allium, Amni, Ephedra, Hyocyamus – and some he did not yet recognise. Like sentinels above them, there were fragrant plumes of Yucca, of which he stood in awe, blue-green Eucalyptus, Datura and Mimosa. And, amongst them, rising stands of a species he did not know, except as a member of the family – the Solonaceae – to which, besides the humble potato, the poisonous nightshades and the hallucinogenic Brugmansia belonged. These majestic plants, becoming higher with each season, began to bear clusters of pendulous trumpet-like flowers, sweetly smelling, in delicate shades of yellow and pink. He took a specimen for Forsyth to identify, but was no wiser: the Chelsea garden did not possess them, nor did it know of their origin. He had Kingsland set a chair for him where their tallest growths might screen him from the wind and the sun, and the distractions of the house and the river. For hours at a time he would sit with just the tinkling fountain – for Kingsland had at last secured its function – his only focus of distraction.

  It was that fourth summer when the child first came to the garden. The mother had died in childbirth, Kingsland had told him. Later his wife had taken pity and taken her in. At first, the bright-eyed girl held no interest for Dr Pentarius, and when Kingsland came again to speak with him he had been occupied and brushed the man aside. The child built houses with stones on the plinth where the doctor had imagined himself immortal, and filled little cups with water from the fountain. It did not seem to him strange that she never came to him under his green canopy, even though, when he went to play with her – which became more and more often – she chatted to him with pleasure and without inhibition.

  Only one aspect of Dr Pentarius’ new-found existence disturbed him – his health. For some weeks his eyesight had begun to play tricks. In certain lights the letters on the page of his herbal seemed to dance to a strange rhythm that had something to do with his irregular heart beat. When he rose from his chair he became dizzy, so that for a few moments he could neither stand straight nor begin to walk. Then, one day, reacting to the child’s cry of delight and invitation, he had simply fallen over, and lain there under her puzzled gaze until Kingsland chanced to find him and return him to his chair. That evening he scanned the shelves of his dispensary, wondering which of his concoctions – or combinations of them – might have caused such aberrations. He resolved to sample no more medicines, and with the passing of time his symptoms disappeared. That winter he spent long hours with Forsyth picking over his experiences, without result. Then, the following summer, his problems returned.

  From the deep shade Dr Pentarius craned his neck to watch Rosa leave the garden through the arch in the box hedge. A garden of delight, Forsyth had once said; and it was indeed a casket of wonders, on a grand scale, full of botanical treasures to be experienced by all the senses. Without hardly moving his body, Dr Pentarius could grasp the fronds of Mentha, Lavendula and Rosmarinus and squeeze out their sharp perfumes, skim the seeds of Linum and release them, tinkling, on to the flat arm of his chair, hold up the translucent pods of Capsicum so that the contours within were refracted like rainbows in the sunlight. And then there was the gentle laughter of the child he was coming to love and depend upon. He saw the half-finished piles of stones and the sand and the fresh cups for water that Rosa had put there. It promised to be another day of unthreatened contentment on a scale of time stretching indefinitely into the future.

  At first the child did not appear, though he could sense her presence outside the garden. Instead, Rosa returned alone, with puzzlement in her beaming smile.

  ‘It seems Amelia has brought you a present, although I cannot get from her whom it is from.’ She called to the child, ‘Come Amelia, you can give it to the doctor now.’

  Amelia walked slowly into view, clutching with both hands a small flat parcel wrapped in green paper and bound with silk cord of the same colour. She held it out to him.

  He looked from the child’s face to the parcel and back again. There was something he could not fathom, a tension that had no part in simple giving. Where there should have been only wonderment in the child’s eyes he saw there apprehension also.

  ‘Thank you, Amelia,’ he said.

  His trembling fingers were no match for the cord, even though it was tied in a simple bow. As he handed the package to Rosa the texture of the wrapping seemed to transform itself into shifting patterns of whorls and flourishes, more exotic, more eastern – that was the word that inexplicably entered his head – than could be had even in the capital itself.

  Rosa unwrapped the parcel just sufficiently for him to complete the process.

  ‘A book, Amelia?’ he anticipated. But as the paper fell away he was left holding not a book but a mirror in a simple wooden frame. Disappointed, he turned it over. ‘What’s that on the back?’ he asked Rosa.

  ‘A date,’ she replied. ‘Today’s date. Or rather, this day six years ago. Does that mean anything?’

  Dr Pentarius tried to reply, but could not gather his thoughts sufficiently, and said nothing. He held the mirror at arm’s length, beside the child’s face. An increasing effort of will against his faltering strength just permitted him to keep it there. The two images – his own and the child’s – swam in his consciousness: his wasted, hers open and innocent, one moment so different, the next coming together as if to fuse, because of a commonality of features.

  Slowly, the child turned and began to walk dejectedly away, as if her mission – whatever it might have been – had failed.

  But, still holding the mirror, Dr Pentarius was engaged in a second voyage of realisation. Tentatively he sniffed the heavy scents that for many days he had inhaled without thought or caution, or even caring to identify their origin. Now he saw behind him in the mirror the contorted and vengeful inflorescences transformed by reflection from the beautiful scented flowers that he knew to be there but could no longer see.

  Without thinking he expelled the air from his lungs and inhaled massively. Too late. The perfumes and vapours, inseparable carriers of pleasure and pain, filled his being. His heart pounded, the beats tripping over themselves. His breaths were taken as great convulsive gasps.

  His last perception was of Amelia, his grandchild, her dark eyes wide, staring at him from across the garden.

  Snow in Winter

  I had tried to flee, to fly back across the Atlantic to obscurity, but the girl at the desk had said no, there were no more flights because of the blizzard, and mine had been the last one in. She watched my fingers drumming on the shiny black – black, yes – counter and for a second her bright puzzled eyes engaged with mine. In my pocket Melanie’s letter telling me of our mother’s death nudged at my thigh. I felt a brief flicker of remorse. But it passed. As I left the terminal the snow swept in, even through the revolving door. Not surprisingly, the taxi reached Mortlake Crematorium fifteen minutes late.

  They had expected stragglers. An attendant at the top of the steps waited while I kicked the slush from my shoes.

  ‘Family, Sir?’

  Why couldn’t I say ‘mother’?

  ‘Eugene Harrington, her son.’

  ‘Through there, Sir. There are still seats on the left.’

  On its plinth the coffin threatened the closed red curtains like a battering ram. I looked across the score of grey female heads to the front row, where I should have been. She was there, Melanie, my sister. There was no mistaking her gold-red hair, just like her mother’s. It fell to her shoulders but I’d remembered it much shorter.

  I sat as the last of the amens died and the priest waited for the sea of rising faces to settle.

  ‘Please remain seated. Berenice Harrington, as we all know, was a piani
st of considerable renown. It is fitting, therefore, to end this service with a recording she made at the height of her career – of a piece that her children told me she most liked to play to them…’

  What was this man saying? She’d never played for me. But I had no difficulty recognising the opening of the Appassionata sonata. Yes, she could certainly play. Those electrifying chords sent a sharp reminder to the nape of my neck. It felt like she was emerging from the coffin. I saw in my mind those heavily ringed white fingers pushing the cover upwards, as if it were the lid of her precious Bechstein. Did Melanie know why I remembered that piece?

  The echoes came fast. ‘Eugene! I’ve told you till I’m white to the tips of my ears never to approach the piano when I’m playing. What is it now?’

  ‘Melanie’s cut her finger.’

  And then the exasperation with me, just for being the messenger. ‘Oh, then of course you had to tell me.’ There followed the familiar call into the distance, ‘Melanie…’

  As the red curtains opened for the coffin I looked – frantically in my mind – for the certainty of the fire. But I was disappointed. Perhaps these days sight of it is deemed unsuitable for sensitive natures. Then, minutes later, all was done in the chapel. Those at the front began to file out.

  She smiled as she passed me, my sister, with those grey-green actress eyes, ever alert, but never with guile. I followed her outside to where the flowers were laid. We stood side by side, looking down at the wreaths and posies with their dusting of snow. To my surprise she took my arm and pulled me towards her, over the flowers that from the message I could see were her own.

  ‘Don’t look down. What can you smell?’

  ‘Tulips, chrysanthemums… jasmine. The smell of jasmine in winter! With mine, I hardly bothered about the colours even.’

  ‘I’m not surprised.’

  ‘Melanie, can she really have gone?’

  ‘You wanted it that much, Eugene?’

  ‘Didn’t you?’

  ‘Sooner or later you’ll have to forgive.’

  We both knew our relationships with Berenice had been different. It had always been so, but I’d never really known why. Even in death her shadow lay over us. I wanted to change the subject. Above all I wanted to know about her situation. I tried to sound casual.

  ‘So Piers isn’t with you?’

  ‘He’s… um… directing at the National. He said he might appear later, if the rehearsals finish on time. Piers is too busy for funerals.’

  I wanted to ask, ‘And for you?’ but wasn’t sure enough of my ground. I’d read in the papers they’d been an item for three years. I wanted to ask if she was happy, but feared she might answer yes, and said nothing. She took my arm as we walked away.

  ‘How would it feel to be driven to the house by your little sister?’

  ‘I didn’t even know you drove.’

  ‘That’s why I need to spend time with you.’

  She made her way cautiously, her driving at odds with her impetuous spirit.

  ‘It’s good you take care in the snow.’ I said.

  ‘Pooh. Only to let the blue-rinse brigade get ahead. Didn’t you see them all in the chapel, how determined they looked? They’re doing the refreshments.’

  ‘I wish we didn’t have to go there.’

  ‘They promised they’d leave us in peace. Honestly.’

  It was seven years since I’d been in my mother’s house. It was on one of the streets opposite the wall of Kew Gardens along the Richmond Road. Not much had changed in the first floor room that she’d called her salon. I’d heard her death had been sudden and sheets of music were piled upon the still-open piano. Open too was her great rosewood bureau, stuffed with papers. Beside it the lace curtains at the window were tied back. In spite of the falling snow I could see the pagoda in the Gardens rising high above the trees.

  Many were the faces that came and went in that room. Some have become famous musicians. I’ve even attended their concerts, though, tainted by Berenice, I’ve tended to blank them out from my mind. Then there were her students. When I was small she’d get me to lead them up the stairs into her presence. Sometimes she would make me stay.

  ‘Sit there, Eugene. Millicent will demonstrate for you how diligence can reap rewards.’ There would follow a childish rendition of Für Elise, or some such piece, and then, ‘That was heavenly, my dear. Now let me hear the B minor scale in thirds.’ Then her head would turn mechanically towards me. ‘You know, Eugene, I think I’ll see if they’ll let her play the Hummel concerto at the school concert – only the slow movement of course because her fingers are still quite tiny. Little Millicent must make her mother feel so proud.’

  And so I would endure such torture, praying for Melanie to appear. But that, when it happened, only gave Berenice further opportunities.

  ‘Melanie, I’ve brought you some walnut cake with coffee icing – your favourite. Would you like it now or when you’ve done your homework?’

  Cake? Coffee icing? But Melanie had looked at me with those apologetic eyes and while Berenice was practising we’d eaten it together in the kitchen.

  A quiet voice at my elbow returned me to the world of the reception.

  ‘Penny for your thoughts, Mr Harrington. We’re leaving now.’

  I’d seen her somewhere. ‘Well, goodbye then, Mrs… um…’

  ‘Prendergast… Antonia.’

  ‘Oh, yes, I think my mother may have mentioned you.’

  ‘She should have done. After all, I was her best friend.’

  ‘Then thank you for all you’ve done, Mrs Prendergast.’

  ‘A great musician and a great woman, Mr Harrington. We must not forget that.’ She called to the kitchen. ‘Bye, Melanie. We’ll ring you tomorrow.’

  Melanie appeared in the doorway. ‘Bye, Antonia. Thanks for everything.’

  The slam of the front door was of a tight lid closing upon a treasured silence.

  ‘They’ve gone,’ Melanie said.

  ‘I thought they never would. Melanie, I thought I’d never see you again. It seemed as if Berenice would outlive us all.’

  ‘Really never?’

  ‘I didn’t dare dream.’

  ‘Look, we can talk later. First we have to look through her papers.’

  ‘We? You’re the executor. I’m nothing.’

  ‘She’s gone, Eugene. She’s taken the past with her.’

  ‘Has she? Some of it is ours too, remember.’

  We made three piles – papers to be dealt with urgently, ones that could wait, and others of no apparent significance. At first we worked without speaking. I thought she was thinking what I was thinking. But I was wrong. I should have had an inkling of it when she handed me a particularly dull-looking bundle to look through, and then noticed how carefully she scrutinised her own clutch of documents from a previously unopened drawer. When I looked at her again she returned my stare with an expression of such profound resignation that I set my own papers aside. I’d be proved right in thinking she’d made a discovery. But something about her made me stay silent.

  So I said, ‘I think we deserve a break.’

  ‘You do?’

  ‘Definitely.’

  ‘Suggestions?’

  The worm that had been squirming in my brain since we started the task – probably even before we left the chapel – seemed to speak to me. It’s now or never, it said. In an hour or so it will be dark. Piers will come for her and the opportunity will be lost for ever.

  So, as casually as I could, I came out with it: ‘Why not a walk in the Gardens?’

  ‘Are you serious? With the snow still falling?’

  ‘I’m sorry. It was a silly suggestion.’

  She turned her head towards the window. I rejoiced that her beautiful hair no longer
had to be shared with Berenice. Once, during a quarrel, she had said to me, Eugene, how can you possibly be my brother, with that black head of your’s. But when I went to cry in my room, she came to find me.

  The sky had lightened a little and the snow on the pagoda seemed almost sunlit. Then she turned to me and smiled.

  ‘No… no. Perhaps we should do it.’

  I took her coat from the hall stand and wrapped it around her. Even with my eyes closed I knew the exact span of her shoulders and rightly anticipated the firmness of her arms.

  ‘Eugene, you can’t be shivering. It’s not that cold in here.’

  She knew. I’m sure she knew.

  Curiously, even in the snow there were people queuing to go into the Gardens.

  ‘Eugene! It’s eight pounds fifty to get in.’

  ‘When we used to climb over the wall for free.’

  We did. There used to be a spot just out of sight of the entrance where the branch of a tree in the pavement grew over the wall, and we were agile enough to climb it in a few seconds flat.

  Once we’d paid and gone inside, without a word we made for that stretch of wall and looked up. The branch – massive now – was still there. As I looked it became attenuated in my mind until it was barely the thickness of an arm, with Melanie desperately hanging there.

  ‘Help me Eugene. My skirt’s caught.’